


Behold the Herald

by sepulchralseneschal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12938553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepulchralseneschal/pseuds/sepulchralseneschal
Summary: a pretentious little drabble about a Sad Bear's pining.





	Behold the Herald

Blackwall found he was hibernating most of the day, dreaming through the manual labor and the trebuchet drills. He would wake only for the briefest of moments when he caught the Herald's laugh carrying across the snow, or glimpsed her as she came to consult with Harrit, freckled face dappled in the shade of the pines. The world would assault him then, and he would feel the sting of the mountain air blasting across his face, seeking out the spaces beneath his armor. The Herald was the cure to that cold, her bronze hair catching fire in the Sun.

Once he had come upon her in the chantry. He had been in a foul mood; the First Enchantress had superseded the request he had placed with Threnn for varghest scales to augment the soldier's chest plates. Told her that her precious silks were a higher priority, and deserved to be first in the order. Something about channeling the elements, but he didn't buy it. And he aimed to tell her just that. But he happened to arrive at the chantry in the same breath as she, and his rage fizzled and died. He held the door for her, of course, and followed her inside, and because of this he was witness to her undressing. He watched as she untangled herself from her hunter's gear, even helped her at one point; held her coat as she peeled herself out of it. Her leathers gave way to the fuzzy flannel blouse beneath, just as her demeanor softened when sheltered from scrutinizing eyes. Such a thin fabric; it was only an inch of air and a wisp of cloth that shielded her shoulder from his touch, and her breasts beneath were unbound by smallclothes. The trappings of shemlen, she'd say, her lips pursing around the word _trap_. That loosely buttoned front would easily accommodate a grasping hand, if she'd have it...

He had to focus on his work. He couldn't lose sight of what was important. And he certainly couldn't afford to be distracted from his duty. Such memories, such visions...they were beneath the Warden he was trying to be. They were the lurid fantasies of a former life, which painted his colleague in a most unprofessional light. He kept telling himself how disrespectful it was, but these words rang hollow in the black before dawn when he awoke startled and sweating, tormented by the shadows of his past.

It was a comfort then to imagine her with him, lips dragging lazily across the back of his neck, hand cupping his elbow, before skating across his flesh and dipping down beneath the blanket. He would wrap himself up in her ghost and lose himself for a stretch of time, clinging ever more desperately to the concept of her caress until his groin tightened and his passion emptied into his palm. Then he would utter her name, strained and sorry, the only time he ever dared to dispense with titles.

Dellawyn Lavellan. Those elvish syllables were an invocation to him; a sweet, rolling chant that pulsed in his head all through the day, hidden behind his other thoughts. Most of the time he could fool himself into thinking that he was dedicated only to the well-being of the people of Thedas, but in the small hours of the morning, when the world was silent and he was laid bare before himself, he knew differently. It was she that he worshiped. And why not? Her title demanded it, after all.


End file.
